Her Broken Soul
by PurpleHedgehogSkies
Summary: Marie lost her sister Lisette, her parabatai, a year ago. Living in Idris was once a joy, now it's like a prison that Marie has the chance to escape. The Chicago Institute, her new home, houses a pair of boys-curious Tristan Lovelace, and his quiet friend, Dmitri. Over time she befriends the odd pair, learning what makes them tick, all the while struggling to feel whole again.
1. Otherworldly

**Otherworldly**

From the creaky old house on the crest of the hill, Alicante had always seemed near and far at the same time. In reality, it wasn't far at all, but it was much too otherworldly to exist just in their backyard. The glass towers glittered on the horizon, clear and picturesque against the sky. For as long as Marie could remember, she and Lisette had crawled up through the attic hatch and onto the roof, watching the sun rise over the city. When they were young, it was dreamlike.

Now, to Marie, it was just a comely battlefield.

It'd been just over a year since Lisette's death, and the longer she was gone, the less Marie could see the majesty of Idris. Her sister had left a hole in the household, her artwork torn from the wall, her half-full shampoo bottle thrown out. All of Lisette's things were piled up in her locked bedroom, as if she'd never existed. The only trace of her was the curling black mark at the top of Marie's spine—the _parabatai_ rune—and even that was hidden.

Without Lisette, it wasn't home. Marie was glad to be moving away, away from the glass daggers of the skyline, the rolling hills, and the throngs of fellow Nephilim. Her mother and aunts were sending her off to America, to live with old family friends. The family ran the Chicago Institute, and they were decent people if Marie remembered correctly. It didn't actually matter to her; to her it was just a change of scenery.

As she swung down into the attic and shut the hatch, Marie heard voices drifting up from below. Down in the kitchen her great aunts, Louisa and Margot, were arguing in broken French, some pointless dispute about the integrity of Louisa's cooking. Marie ignored them and kicked the attic door down, watching as the ladder unfolded to scrape the floor. She took the rungs two at a time and easily put it back up. Marie wiped the dust from her hands and turned to face her mother.

"Are you packed? You leave tomorrow, Marie, if you are not packed…"

"Relax," said Marie. "If I was not finished, would I have gone to the roof? You misunderstand the meaning of work ethic, Mother."

Her mother sighed, staring at Marie for a long, drawn out moment.

"Off to bed with you," she finally said. "It's much too late to be awake, if you plan on waking in time tomorrow morning. Go on." Marie's mother began to usher her in the direction of her bedroom, but Marie shook her off. "I'll get them to quiet down. You need some shut eye before your trip."

"It's a portal." Marie swatted her mother away, but the woman was persistent. "I'll be traveling for two seconds, Mom."

But she didn't listen. She nudged Marie into her room and shut the door behind her. She could be heard moving down the hallway and shouting at the aunts to stop making such a racket. Marie sunk down onto her mattress, staring up at the ceiling as her mother, instead of stopping the argument, joined in.

It was good-natured shouting and it eventually wound down, and Marie listened to the soft voices that ascended the staircase. Her mother led them, followed by her aunts, and they approached her bedroom in their slippered feet. She quickly turned over, her back to the door as they peeked inside.

The aunts murmured in French, and Marie's mother heaved another heavy sigh. As she looked outside at the darkened hills of Idris, Marie thought about how much she would miss them. She would, very much, but she could not stay in this empty house like a ghost.

* * *

The Institute in the early morning was all dark hallways and shadows, a quiet calm seeping from the walls and floors and high, arched ceilings. The church had a funny design, with winding staircases behind the pulpit, and the floor above overlooking the pews. It was all ornate wooden railings and rich colored walls, painted with scenes in Shadowhunter history. Several doors interrupted the murals, leading to various rooms and passages.

A sole witchlight bobbed along, and its glow cast spidery shadows on the wall. Tristan turned the small stone over in his hand as he walked beside his friend.

"What did you say her name was?" he asked Dmitri. "Fairstrider? I've never heard of any Fairstriders, Dmitri."

Dmitri nodded and continued his graceful stride. Tristan turned the light towards him, and he didn't flinch.

"So they're a small family? How does your dad know them, then?" Tristan wondered. Dmitri gave him a look, the sort of look that meant he was asking too many questions. It was a searing look; it felt like it burned a path straight to the rune scrawled over his forearm. "Okay, okay, relax. No more questions."

Dmitri grunted as if he didn't believe it. Tristan laughed, swinging an arm over his _parabatai's _shoulders as they walked on through the passage and out a back door. It led to the back garden, a lush space overrun with the evidence of Helena Hightower's botany addiction. She'd planted a thousand roses and shrubs, covered nearly every inch of the yard with perennials of all shapes and sizes, leaving only a narrow, winding footpath. Tristan let his eyes scan the small area behind the Institute, pausing at the Sanctuary, which was partly concealed by bushes, and then the greenhouse in the other corner of the yard. Dmitri wordlessly walked off and sat on one of his mother's benches, out of the light and into the shadows. Tristan was never sure if he became invisible like that on purpose, but if he did, it worked. All he could really see of Dmitri was the outline of his ratty brown boots.

Tristan knew this wasn't a normal thing, waiting in the backyard for a girl in a portal. But like all abnormal things, he adjusted easily—after all, he was born and raised to kill demons. It couldn't get much weirder than that.

"It has to be costing them a fortune to bring her here," said Tristan, settling down on the bench beside Dmitri. "Why bother? And why so early? Oh," he paused, seeing the look on Dmitri's face, illuminated by the witchlight in his hand, "too many questions. Gotcha."

But Tristan's mind kept working, the gears turning and questions popping up everywhere. Just because Dmitri didn't want to hear them, that didn't mean he had to stop thinking them up. What was so important about this girl that she was arriving by way of portal? Why here, why now? Maybe he would ask her, when she showed up.

He watched the yard for any indication of her arrival. It would be great to know what a portal actually looked like, so he'd know it when he saw it, but that wasn't the case. In all his seventeen years, Tristan had never actually seen or used a portal, he'd only read about them. And that wasn't much use to him at all.

"Shouldn't your parents be here by now?" asked Tristan. This time, Dmitri only shrugged, his gaze pinned somewhere beyond his mother's chaotic garden.

The air rippled, so abruptly that Tristan leapt out of his seat. Dmitri stared blankly at the spot, unsurprised as the ripple grew, fanning out into an opening. An opening right in the nighttime air. Tristan watched in awe as it grew and grew, until finally someone stepped out of it.

Tristan recognized the landscape of Idris beyond, the sky freshly lit for the morning. It was so serene and postcard-worthy, he was baffled that anyone would want to leave so suddenly. It was captivating enough to momentarily distract him from the two figures that had emerged from the portal.

"Oh, are we early?" asked the older woman. Tristan shook his head and gazed over her shoulder for a second more, before finally letting his eyes fall to the new arrivals.

The girl didn't seem much older than he was, and next to her dainty mother, she appeared tall and elegant. If Tristan had to guess, he would say she was just under his own height. Her hair color was hard to discern in the strange lighting, but it curled around her face and shoulders in a way that suggested it had been blown around a bit. Her delicate features, just like those of the woman beside her, were shadowed and ethereal.

"Hey," he said, grinning what he thought to be his most charming grin. "Seems part of the welcoming committee is playing hooky. Well, I'm Tristan Lovelace, temporary bellboy and Shadowhunter extraordinaire. Pleased to meet you." Tristan held out one of his hands for shaking. The mother did the same, but the girl hung back.

"Adrienne Fairstrider," she introduced herself. "And my daughter Marie. It's good to know there's young people around, I fear it'd be awfully boring for her otherwise."

"Oh, it's anything but boring around here," said Tristan, glancing at Marie and smirking. "Dmitri," he called into the shadows. "Stop being invisible and help me with these bags."

Dmitri ducked into the light, his head hung, and swiftly took one of the suitcases from Mrs. Fairstrider. As he shrank away, Tristan hurried to introduce him. "This is Dmitri, Mr. Hightower's son. He's…shy."

He glanced at Marie, wondering if she'd caught a glimpse of Dmitri's face. By the look on hers, the same scowl she'd had on at first, he figured that she hadn't. Instead of scrutinizing the boy in the shadows, she examined the one with the witchlight, in all his rumpled morning glory. Tristan approached her, taking her bag, and he watched as her gaze fell to the _parabatai_ rune on his arm.

She said nothing, and Tristan suppressed a smile. This girl looked nothing like Dmitri, but they were uncannily similar with their dark expressions and brooding silences. Tristan thought the three of them would get on swimmingly.

"Oh, goodness me," chirped Mrs. Fairstrider. "I ought to be going." She leaned in and Tristan backed off, watching as the woman planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek. Marie kissed back and pulled away, giving her mother's hand a squeeze.

They exchanged a long look before Marie's mother stepped back into the portal, waving and wiping her tears until she disappeared from view. The garden took on a heavy silence; Tristan could hear his own breathing and nothing else.

"Dmitri, my lad," he chuckled, turning to his parabatai. "Shall we take the lady to her room?"

There was a grunt of agreement from the shadows, and they started towards the back door of the Institute, Marie trailing after them.


	2. Dusty Pews

**Dusty Pews**

When the sun hit the Institute, multicolored light drifted down to the floor in beams. The main part of the old church was a vast, open space, and when it was lit up, there were no shadows to disappear into. So, as Tristan leaned over the railing to look down at the rows and rows of pews, he spotted Dmitri almost instantly. He was perched precariously on a back pew, looking like he could drift away with the wind at any moment.

Tristan headed down the stairs and ran down the middle of the church, skidding to a stop just where Dmitri sat. He grinned down at his _parabatai_, the light catching the streaks of red in his hair and the sparkle in his eye. "Breakfast is generally served in the kitchen, you know," Tristan said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Dmitri looked up through the fringe of his bangs. The look on his face spoke volumes, as it always did, and Tristan softened. He joined his best friend on the old wooden pew, sighing. "You have to eat, Hightower."

Dmitri shrugged. Tristan's shoulders snapped back and he sat up straight.

"What, are you going to sneak in when the bacon's cold in the pan? Every morning?" Tristan asked irritably. "She lives here, Dmitri. She's going to see you eventually, one way or another." He hated to be pushy, but as rational as Dmitri could be, his self-consciousness often got the better of him. Tristan wasn't about to let a little insecurity keep his _parabatai_ from eating breakfast, or any other meal for that matter.

The other boy squared his bony shoulders, his jaw set. He wasn't going to move, unless Tristan came up with a more convincing argument. He turned and looked around, waiting for something to pop into his head, something to get Dmitri into the kitchen before all the food was gone. His eyes skated over the pulpit and dust laden pews, the bright glass windows above them and the cold linoleum below.

"She deserves to know you," he finally said, his tone softer. "And you deserve to know her. I get that you don't like strangers, but if you meet her face-to-face, in a lit area, then she won't be much of a stranger anymore. By the Angel, Dmitri, I'll bring her out here myself if I have to."

Dmitri eyed him. Tristan knew that if he tried it, the bastard would be gone the second he turned his back. This time, it seemed Dmitri couldn't be persuaded. Tristan was now hungry and losing his patience, but he continued to sit there, staring back at his closest friend. As much as he wanted to go see Marie, to stuff his face with Helena's brilliant cooking, he stayed right where he was, beside Dmitri.

Dmitri heaved a sigh and made a shooing gesture. Tristan shook his head. "I'll stay here with you, if you don't mind." Dmitri groaned. "What? It's in my oath. Wither thou goest, I will go. If thou insists upon sulking, I will sit on dusty old pews with you until you realize how foolish you are being."

Dmitri glared and Tristan smirked. Their eyes battled silently, Dmitri's stubbornness matched by Tristan's sudden display of loyalty. Dmitri's intensely dark look sparring with Tristan's decidedly impish one. Finally, a wordless agreement was made, and the two of them stood and left the pew. Tristan glided gracefully alongside his _parabatai_, trying not to gloat.

They moved as one towards the kitchen, which was tucked behind the spiraling staircases. The door was shrouded in shadow, but it opened into a bright and quaint room with polished counters and mouth-watering smells. Helena Hightower flitted from one end of the kitchen to the other, juggling pans and dishes and sizzling grease, a wave of dark hair flowing behind her. Tristan grinned and skirted around her, ignoring the way Dmitri crept along the wall in his efforts to remain unseen. Marie hadn't looked up from her breakfast.

"Lovely morning, isn't it?" Tristan asked jovially, clasping his hands in the center of the kitchen. Mrs. Hightower turned and grinned at him, her chocolate eyes glinting.

"I know. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping," she sighed happily. "It's just gorgeous. Oh, Marie, you ought to see the garden in the daylight. It's so terribly pretty."

"I'll be sure to take a look," said Marie, lifting her head. Her hair was a light caramel color with strands of gold woven through it, and her eyes were a dense blue-gray. Like storm clouds, Tristan thought. "In the meantime, Mrs. Hightower, thank you for the breakfast." She pushed herself back from the table and stood, reaching her full height. Tristan smiled at her.

"Good morning, Marie," he said. She nodded and started for the door. As she walked past him, she carried a faintly floral scent, which made him smile even more. As Helena dished out some bacon and eggs for the boys, Tristan turned and watched Marie's receding form. "Hey," he called after her. She paused, looking over her shoulder. "We can show you around later, if you'd like. Get the lay of the land, you know?"

She gave him a long look, the sort of soul-scanning look he got from Dmitri from time to time. Tristan refused to squirm, straightening his posture and widening his grin. What was she thinking, when she looked at him like that? Was she as curious about him as he was about her? No, no one was ever as curious as Tristan, and he himself wasn't much to be curious about.

"Maybe," said Marie, finally.

As she left, Dmitri inched his way towards the breakfast spread. In one swift movement, Tristan plopped down on a bar stool beside his friend, digging in with vigor. Dmitri laughed lightly as Tristan snorted, poking fun at himself by imitating a pig. Tristan muttered something about cannibalism then, and his parabatai laughed louder. His laughter was high and clear, bright enough to make his mother grin behind her curtain of hair.

Dmitri didn't see, but Tristan knew that sometimes, when her son laughed like that, Helena secretly shed tears of joy.

* * *

With laughter bubbling in the kitchen behind her, the dead silence of the Institute seemed a tad foreboding to Marie. When she'd arrived, she'd had Tristan's velvety voice to guide her, but now the walls of the old church echoed nothing but the sound of her own footsteps. At least the bright daylight shone in through the high, stained glass ceiling and drifted delicately around the wooden beams. Tristan had said last night that the Institute was truly breathtaking in the morning, and he'd been right.

Lisette would only have to see it and the next minute she'd be hauling out a blank canvas and her brushes and painting like crazy. Marie smiled slightly at the visual, all paint-caked blonde hair and glittering eyes, but her heart sank with the realization that Lisette would never paint again. Her body ached and she paused on the steps, looking up and around her, absorbing the beauty her sister would never see.

Being away from Idris was refreshing—no more lifeless beige walls or sharp towers on the horizon, no more looks of pity and memories locked away. But there was no way to forget Lisette, as she left tears in the fabric of Marie's consciousness, tears that were impossible to ignore. Her absence had stopped burning, but it still stung fiercely.

Marie thought about Lisette a lot, but the thoughts were often nightmarish. If she didn't think them during the day, she certainly did at night, horrors replaying behind her eyelids. Now, under the lit up stained glass, Lisette was a bright, lively thought instead of a dark one that brought pain and guilt. She was the fair-haired beauty with the paintbrushes, the graceful hunter with gleaming seraph blades. It was freeing to remember her like that, as a star that lived before it died.

Lisette shouldn't be defined by her death, Marie decided, but by her words and her laughter and her smile—the way she'd lived.


	3. Unremarkable

**Unremarkable **

In truth, Marie hadn't gotten much sleep at all before leaving the hilltop house in Idris, nor had she dozed off after her arrival in Chicago. She'd been up for quite some time, but she'd spent it all behind the closed door of her bedroom. Now she was back there, navigating the wide space with interest. Her room in Idris was much smaller, more Spartan. It'd been equipped with a flickering light fixture, some wooden furniture, and a twin-sized bed that she'd never really made. Before Lisette died, Marie often wondered why she even had her own room; she spent so much time in her sister's. It was brighter there, with paintings on every wall and Lisette's jewelry hanging from knobs and her clothes strewn everywhere. The two of them could lounge there for hours between training sessions, doing absolutely nothing but staring at the lambs on the ceiling, leftover from its days as a nursery.

Marie gazed up at the paneled wood of her new ceiling. Her room was tucked in a back corner of the Institute and overlooked the garden. The walls were a soft green, with twirling strands of painted ivy circling the room. The bedclothes were the same color, with a similar pattern embroidered into them. Marie thought it all quite pretty, though she could do without the elaborate table lamp depicting Eden in its base.

Upon seeing it, she had scrambled to turn the scene so that Adam at least was facing the wall.

"Does this door creak?" asked a voice from the door, interrupting her thoughts. Marie sat up and scowled at Tristan he swung the door on its hinges and listened. It did indeed let out a shrill squeaking sound, something Marie hadn't noticed until he'd pointed it out. "I ought to fix it then. Though I left my stele in my other pants."

"What are you doing?" Marie snapped, glaring at him from her place on the bed.

"Are you French?" he asked, instead of answering. Then he shook his head. "Of course you are, your mother is French. What I mean is, do you speak it? I've always wanted to learn, but it was left out of our curriculum due to our tutor's qualms with the culture or something. Quite a prude, he was, always barking at Dmitri and me to keep our shirts on and not stab one another. I am not sorry I put that snake in his pillowcase when I was thirteen—it's great to be rid of him."

"Not fluently. Is there any other reason you're in my bedroom?" she asked.

"Oh, I have loads of questions to be answered about you, dear Marie," Tristan said, his hands in his pockets and an unabashed grin across his face. "And afterwards, answers to be questioned. I like to know everything I can about people I'll be sharing my home with."

"There isn't much to know," she replied.

"Fairstrider isn't a common name, you know," he continued, seemingly ignoring her. Tristan strode into the room, perching on the arm of the little brown armchair. "I was about to go look in the books, but I thought to ask you instead, because sometimes the accounts are different if spoken aloud. I know quite a bit about Shadowhunter families, including my own. Ever heard of Jessamine, the deluded damsel of the London Institute? She was a Lovelace."

Marie narrowed her eyes.

"I don't know much. My mother's French, my dad was born here in Chicago. Before them, it's all a jumble of overdramatized tales in an attempt to make up for our nonexistent reputation." She sighed and got up, passing Tristan to kneel beside the door. "My mother's side of the family is the same—a whole lot of demon killing, but largely unrecognized."

"If she was French, then how did they meet?" asked Tristan.

Marie pulled her stele from her back pocket and started drawing a soundless rune into the door. "In Idris. Nothing special, honestly."

"And…why are you here?"

"The Hightowers must've owed my father or something," she said with a shrug. "Mom and the aunts were eager to get rid of me, and this seemed like a prime location, I suppose." Marie stood up and put her stele away, stepping back to admire her work. She nudged the door with her foot, and as she'd hoped, it was silent. "I have yet to say if I like it here, it's been mere hours."

Tristan opened his mouth as if to say more, but he stopped himself. She watched as he furrowed his brow in thought.

Then he grinned. "All the more reason to take me up on my offer. I'm really the best tour guide I know, to tell the truth. I ask more questions than I answer and spout useless nonsense about everything under the sun, but it's better than just pointing and grunting." He laughed at his own joke, though Marie didn't really understand how it was funny.

She didn't have any excuse not to go. She wasn't tired, an she'd done all her unpacking in the restless hours before the Institute came alive—before Mrs. Hightower was up and cooking breakfast, humming away while she worked. Marie had noticed that she had this aura of brightness that followed her, from the moment she poked her head in to say good morning and all the way down to the kitchen. Her son was nothing like that, with his solemn silence and hanging in the shadows.

If anyone had absorbed Mrs. Hightower's demeanor, it was Tristan. Marie briefly wondered what had brought him to the Institute, why he wasn't living with his own parents. But she didn't ask, just turned to him. He was tall and lean; she could see muscles where the fabric of his shirt clung to his body. Tristan's hair wasn't particularly long or short, at first she wanted to call it rust-colored, but really it was more mahogany. A lot about him was unremarkable—his clothes, the sharp planes of his features, the regular old brown of his eyes.

If there was nothing compelling about the boy, however, there'd be no reason to go with him. After standing there for a minute, Marie did finally agree to this "tour" of his. Not because of his interest in her or his babbling or his pleasant persona.

In the end, for the intelligent gleam in his eyes and his genuine charm, Marie wasn't sure why anyone _wouldn't_ follow him.

* * *

Tristan ran his hands over the richly colored wall paintings, pointing out things like the Mortal Cup and Jonathan Shadowhunter, and the scene that depicted the glass towers of Alicante as they were built. He crouched down and swept his hand over the painted figures that were meant to be the Silent Brothers, turning to Marie. "I find them fascinating, you know," he said. "How they sacrifice everything, even their identities and appearances, to become what they are. To keep records, Marie, to learn everything there is to know about this world. And they never stop."

"Really," she said. "I always thought they were a bit…eerie."

"Yes, Marie," Tristan replied, delighted. "They are feared because they are powerful, the most powerful of all the Nephilim. _Knowledge is power_."

"Well, that and their lack of eyeballs."

Tristan grinned and stood up straight again. He stepped back to admire the menagerie of color and pictures, and turned to look at the other side of the church, where the mural continued. It was such a big part of the Institute, documenting triumph and tragedy, fear and hope, the constant battling against the dark. Marie leaned on the railing, staring across at the same wall, her face closed off and guarded. If she was in awe, or wonder, she didn't show it.

"Is that what you want?" she asked. "Silent Brotherhood?"

Tristan shook his head. "No. I have Dmitri."

"_If aught but death part thee and me_," she murmured. "You wouldn't leave him for anything, not even your wildest dreams."

He nodded, watching her blank eyes search out the rune on his arm. It wasn't only that, he wanted to say, but also the idea of willingly mutilating himself gave him the chills. It was a regular nightmare of Tristan's, looking in the mirror to see his face marred by ugly scars, but he had the luxury of waking up from it. Dmitri didn't.

Whether they were a product of the _parabatai_ bond or just his wildest imagination, Tristan had never told anyone about those dreams. Not even Dmitri.

Everyone has secrets.


	4. The Library

**The Library**

At first glance, one would think the Institute had a much simpler layout, something easier to navigate and memorize, with straight corridors and logical placement of rooms. When Tristan had first seen it, after the awe he'd experienced at the hands of the murals and stained glass, he had looked about and thought the place was otherwise very ordinary. He learned soon enough that he was mistaken, wandering hallways and getting lost in the dark, stumbling across passages in secret places—he and Dmitri had spent hours as little boys, playing Shadowhunter in the neglected corners of the Institute. They'd emerged wielding sticks from the garden, covered in dust instead of blood, wearing grins on their faces instead of grimaces.

Tristan's childhood was the haunting kind of treasure. He remembered the thrills and games and the constant discovery of new things and missed it all terribly.

"I don't remember my parents well," he said to Marie as they walked along a back corridor, light streaming in through the arched windows along the wall. His hand glided over the stones of the opposite wall as he moved, absentmindedly tracing them with his fingers. "They were killed when I was about six, and before that they were hardly ever around. My grandfather watched me, read to me as much as he could—up to his final breath, bless his soul. Then mom and dad didn't come back from a hunt, and I was sent here."

Tristan remembered walking through the doors, a six-year-old clad in white, feeling so small under the high ceiling and sturdy beams. It was overwhelming at his stage of development—the death of his grandfather, his parents; moving to the Institute, wearing white when he didn't even understand the concept of mourning. Then Dmitri had thundered in, covered in dirt and laughing, shouting about demons and ichor while his mother looked on—Tristan had been confused for a moment, but he quickly joined in and in no time, his white clothes had become brown and his sadness had retreated into the back of his mind.

Marie was quiet. She wasn't the same kind of quiet that Dmitri was, Tristan realized. Dmitri was soundless like the shadows, and it was a constant—like the rise and set of the sun, Dmitri was always quiet. But with Marie, Tristan wasn't sure if she'd reply or not, or if she was even listening to anything he said. With Marie, he couldn't decipher anything behind her storm-cloud eyes, and it didn't bother him so much as drive him a little bit crazy. Walking around talking to her for an hour and eliciting such noncommittal responses got his brain working—flooding with _whys_.

After years, Dmitri didn't have much mystery left in him. He had his secret thoughts and his silence, and there were still things Tristan didn't know, but as _parabatai_ the two boys knew each other as well as anyone ever could. In fact, after so long, Tristan knew all of the Hightowers completely, and had the Institute's every hallway and passage mapped out in his head. There wasn't much mystery left in any of it.

Marie was a new mystery.

As they meandered down a spiraling staircase, which was only wide enough to walk single file, Tristan looked over his shoulder. Marie was steps behind him, her gait gracefully slow and deliberate while his were much more sprightly. He paused to let her catch up a bit.

"What do you think?" he asked her. "Impressed with our lovely Institute? How're my tour guide skills?"

Marie put her hand out on the cold stone wall, looking up and around them. "Not bad," she said. Her expression was softer than he'd seen it, and her tone less clipped than he'd heard. Tristan grinned at her.

"Well, I've saved the best for last," he said and continued down the steps.

"Is it always this cold down here?" Marie wondered aloud. Tristan glanced back, still smiling widely.

"Of course," he replied. "We're going underground—it's nice in the summer, and I stock up on blankets in the winter. It isn't that much colder than the rest of the Institute. Next month it'll be perfect, but the attic will be absolutely scorching. I don't understand how Dmitri can sleep up there without shoving ice down his pants."

He saw her suppress a smile, just as they reached the bottom. Tristan skipped the last two steps and landed with a soft thump, showing off just a little. He leaned against the wall and waited for Marie. She didn't skip the steps, and he almost laughed when the last one creaked and buckled under her foot.

Marie cursed and jumped away from the staircase. Tristan smirked. "This _is_ a church, you know."

"Oh, I don't give a—"

Tristan cut her off with a snort, as he was unable to keep from laughing any longer. Marie wasn't amused, however, and she glared at his back while he led her down a hallway lit by dim bulbs that were fixed to the walls every ten feet or so. Tristan remembered when Mr. Hightower first brought him here, and he'd feared that the door at the end led to a dungeon, perhaps with a demon inside. He wondered what Marie was thinking, or if by process of elimination, she already knew.

After all, every Institute had a library.

He reached for the polished brass handles on the doors, admiring for the thousandth time their constant shine. The carved vines seemed to grow directly out of them, climbing up the door and curling delicately at the top. It was arguably Tristan's favorite door in the building, though it wasn't the most ornate, its simplicity was pretty and refreshing. Not to mention it led to his favorite place in the Institute.

Tristan opened the doors with a dramatic flourish, revealing the inside of his precious library. It possessed a high, arched ceiling, and books of every color rested on their shelves, holding thousands of words and stories and truths between their covers. The chandeliers dangling over the room glowed brightly, bringing out the color in the tapestried walls. For a basement library, it was remarkably alive with light and color and the smell of books. Tristan looked over at Marie, who met his eyes very briefly before looking away. She was smiling.

He stepped into the library and closed his eyes, feeling the chill seeping up through the floor, through his socks. He was careful not to slip on the marble as he moved, weaving through the shelves and stroking spines as he went—Tristan never went directly to any spot in the library, preferring to wander for a moment and just take it all in before he did anything else. Marie trailed after him, looking around and peering at spines and, though she wasn't in a state of speechlessness or awe, he thought she appreciated the splendor of the room in a way different than his own. Tristan finally stopped at the heart of the library, sinking down into an armchair. There were two of them, as well as a loveseat, positioned around an underused fireplace and a sturdy table laden with books. Marie sat down as well, folding her long legs beneath her.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's lovely," she said distractedly, her eyes still sweeping the room. "It must be just under the nave."

He nodded. Marie's gaze landed on the painting above the mantel, and she sucked in a breath. Tristan looked to it, knowing the scene by heart, but he would never have expected such a reaction from her. The painting depicted a meadow and a girl, about his and Marie's age. The girl had runes on her arms, and her honey-colored curls obscuring most of her face, except for her smiling mouth. She knelt in the grass, beside lamb and a checkered blanket, but none of it was particularly shocking or breathtaking.

But Marie got up and moved quickly to the painting, scrutinizing it. Her fingers brushed the canvas, tracing the outline of the lamb, and the house atop the hill in the background. Tristan straightened in his seat, unsure whether her eyes were bright with fascination or something else entirely.

"Oliver Fairstrider," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Tristan blinked—he'd never thought to look at the signature in the corner of the painting before, and if he had, he would've recognized Marie's name and he could've told her about this painting ahead of time. "My father's name. This is my house and this," she touched the girl's shoulder lightly, "must be my mom."

"He painted all the walls upstairs, too," he told her. "That's amazing, Marie. Your father—he must've been talented."

"Fat lot of good that did him," she muttered, turning away. She started walking past him, towards the shelves. She was leaving.

"Marie!" Tristan stumbled to his feet and hurried after her. "I didn't mean to offend, honest. I was simply stating—"

She shook her head. "I know. It's not you. Or him."

"Oh," he said, falling into step beside her. Questions were piling up in his mind, about the lambs and the house in the painting, about Oliver Fairstrider, about Marie's abrupt decision to leave…he couldn't resist asking, "Do _you_ paint?"

"No."

Her hair hid her face and her stride sped up, and soon she was out the door and walking briskly down the dark corridor. Tristan was hesitant to leave the library, as he'd only just gotten there, but after a moment of consideration he ran after her. He caught up to Marie halfway up the hallway, sliding in front of her and standing in her path. He reached out, touching her shoulder and trying to catch a glimpse of her face.

"Hey," he said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said through clenched teeth, and she squirmed away from him. "Thank you for the tour," she added curtly. Marie pushed past him and continued towards the stairs. Tristan followed her, standing there while she started up the steps—this time knowing to skip the last one.

Tristan didn't really know much about girls, but he knew enough about people to guess that she wanted to be alone.


	5. Knives

** Knives**

As she ran, the colors of the murals bled together, as did her frantic thoughts. Every time she blinked, she could see the lambs again, the ones in the library painting and the ones on the ceiling in Lisette's bedroom. Marie could see the young version of her mother, but every so often the image morphed into another time, another girl. Lisette's hair tumbled over her shoulders in blonde waves, and her clothing was paint-splattered and her smile less toothy but somehow even brighter.

It hurt to remember.

Marie reached the training room in mere minutes, stumbling inside and slamming the door behind her. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, wishing the images would go and give her a moment of peace. When they didn't, she opened her eyes again to the training room, with its long window that overlooked the ramshackle houses to one side of the Institute. They lined the block on either side, their paint chipped and fading, their windows broken or boarded up.

The sunlight streamed in, reflecting off the blades that adorned the walls. A pair of swords was crossed in the center of the display, glinting in the light as though they'd never been tarnished or covered in blood. Maybe they hadn't.

e Marie let her gaze skate over the array of weapons, shackled to the wall and shimmering in the light—it was hard to think of them as anything but beautiful when they shone like that. The elegant, curving _katana_; the serrated blade to her left that caught the light just right, the crossbow and its arrows hanging side-by-side. They seemed a lot less like killing things, and a lot more like pieces of art.

And art, as she knew, was history. Lisette had told her that once, turning a witchlight over in her hand, illuminating the lambs above. It was midnight, and a storm rattled the very foundation of their home, wind roaring just outside the window.

Lisette had said breathlessly, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

To which Marie had replied, "What is?"

She'd sighed, a far-off look in her eyes. "The lambs, they mean something to us. They symbolize the father we never really knew. Art is like that—it documents things beyond words. It's more than a splash of color, more than a glass tower," Lisette had gestured towards the city in the distance. "It has so much meaning. It is our memories, our history."

Marie blinked tears out of her eyes and turned away from the seraph blades on the wall. Lisette's words echoed through her skull, soft and lovely words spoken by a girl of thirteen, a girl who would never change the way she saw the world. She would grow taller and wiser, she would learn to kill, but she would never stop thinking beautiful thoughts until the very end.

It hurt knowing that that end had come.

Marie plucked a pair of throwing knives off of the wall, taking a moment to adjust to their weight in her hand. She had a set of her own, hidden away in her bedroom, but she hadn't used them since Lisette died—it didn't feel right, to train with them without her sister at her side.

Now, she added a third to her hand before trekking to the middle of the room. She stood there and gazed out the window a moment, taking in the decrepit neighborhood once more. Then Marie turned to face the target on the wall, a slab of wood with spots of varying sizes—the smallest would be the hardest to hit, and to challenge herself, she picked the three dots with the least surface area.

Taking a deep breath, she held one knife in her right hand, adjusting her grip and her stance. She focused on the target, exhaled, and threw.

The knife shook with the impact, its tip embedded in the blue-painted wood. Success.

Marie didn't take as much time to throw the second blade, this time swinging her body a bit with the throw in order to hit the very center of the dot. It hit.

The last one was the smallest target, and the delight of hitting the first two had gone to her head. She crouched and jumped, throwing the knife while she was still aloft. It flew towards the board in an arc as she landed, and seconds later the hilt trembled as the knife just barely caught the edge of the spot.

Close enough. Marie was exhilarated, and she hurried to retrieve the blades so that she could have another go.

* * *

Soundlessly, Dmitri set the foil-wrapped package in front of him, followed by a bottle of water. Tristan looked up at him, grinning. "Oh, you've brought me food—how unheard of."

Dmitri smiled and moved fluidly behind him, reclining in the armchair. Tristan's gaze followed him, and he chuckled when his _parabatai_ propped his feet up on the table, disturbing his piles of books. Several of them tumbled to the floor, and he picked them up quickly, gathering them in his arms, an unorganized jumble of pages and leather.

"Thank you, Dmitri," he said, and Dmitri leaned forward to help him unload the books onto the table. "I've missed lunch then, haven't I? By the Angel, that clock…"

Of course, there was nothing wrong with the clock, only Tristan's judgment of time. As his eyes flew up to the clock, a miniature grandfather on the mantelpiece, he sighed at the late hour.

"Dinner as well? By the Angel, how the time flies. Forgive me, Dmitri," said Tristan, reaching up and shoving his hand through his hair, mussing it. He felt a sense of guilt settle in his chest, and it was not a pleasant thing. "I lost track…I really ought to have an alarm or something."

Dmitri shook his head and clasped Tristan's shoulder.

"Did she…?" he trailed off, tilting his head back to look at Dmitri, his eyes wide and questioning. Dmitri shook his head again, though it wasn't much help. The question was vague and incomplete, so of course the answer would seem inefficient as well. "I mean, did Marie properly see you at supper?"

Another silent no.

"Did she even show?"

He looked into Dmitri's eyes, finding the answer there. She hadn't been at dinner, and Dmitri hadn't seen her since breakfast. Tristan sighed and closed the book he'd been thumbing through; snatching up the sandwich and water that Dmitri had brought him. Every time he unintentionally skipped a meal, Dmitri would bring him a replacement meal in the library. Helena had stopped fixing the sandwiches on account of she'd had enough of his scattered absences—dinner was something you either had or you didn't, she'd said, and if you didn't show up, you didn't eat. But Dmitri was not an unskilled cook himself, and when Tristan's absentmindedness got the better of him, the boy always took it upon himself to throw together a turkey sandwich or a grilled cheese.

"I may have upset her," said Tristan, sitting in the other armchair and peeling away the foil. He frowned at the peanut-butter coated bread in his lap, but of course his distaste was directed at himself and not the sandwich. The sandwich looked very appetizing. "I showed her the library, Dmitri, and I could've sworn she liked it. Then she saw that painting," he gestured to the portrait on the mantelpiece, "and left. Her father did it, he did all of the walls—and I might've accidentally rubbed it in her face that he's dead."

He recounted the day's events in more detail as he ate, and Dmitri listened. He finished with a sigh, "So you see, I haven't a clue what to make of this girl."

Dmitri looked like he was thinking something wise in response, but of course, it would never be said. Tristan would just have to do without, as he always did, and he didn't mind. He smiled, crumpling the foil and reaching for Dmitri's shoulder. He gave it a squeeze, saying, "Hightower, tomorrow is another day. I will go to the girl and make amends to the best of my ability and you, you will meet her properly and she will think as highly of you as I do. I'll make sure of it."

Dmitri half-smiled, and Tristan shook his shoulder.

"Have I ever disappointed you, really?" he asked. "I mean, besides constantly missing meals and vanishing into this library for hours on end."

"No."

"I thought not," said Tristan, beaming.


	6. Nightmares

**Nightmares**

It was night, the fireplace crackling with life and casting a ghoulish light around the room. Marie stood, staring at the painting as the firelight made it even more eerie. The ancient and dark Silent City, depicted perfectly on Lisette's canvas, dark and morose with its high marble arches. Marie remembered the day she'd learned that those arches were made from the ashes of warriors, Nephilim killed in battle.

"Why would you paint it?" she asked. Lisette laughed lightly, gazing into the fire. Marie grimaced, thinking of the hooded figures and their raspy voices caught in her head. She was fourteen and terrified of Silent Brothers, and Lisette delighted in teasing her.

"You know, the Silent City isn't truly silent," said Lisette conspiratorially. The firelight flickered across her face, catching the glint in her eyes. "Because if you really listen, you can hear the whispers of the dead."

And then she was gone, and instead of staring at a painting of the Silent City, Marie was there. She cried out in surprise, and the sound echoed in the cavernous mausoleum.

_ Because if you really listen, you can hear the whispers of the dead. _

_Do you hear them, Marie? _

She could hear them. A dull roar of voices. A cacophony of sound, risen from mouths that had burned ages ago. The whispers of the dead. And above them all, she could hear Lisette's enveloping laughter.

_Do you hear them? I do. _

Lisette wasn't there, though, no matter how frantically Marie looked for her. No matter how loudly she called her name. Marie felt like she couldn't breathe, her heart pounding in her chest cavity, pounding relentlessly in a struggle to survive. A sharp pain bloomed inside her, and a scream rippled through the air.

Lisette, writhing on the floor. Lisette, drenched in a pool of her own blood.

Marie's scream joined her sister's, the sounds mingling and tangling and echoing off the sides of the tomb as one. She was sure that this was what hell sounded like.

And then she jolted awake.

* * *

Dmitri tumbled out of bed, his feet tangled in sheets and his coated in sweat. His body hit the floor with a thud, his forehead cracking against the floorboards. He groaned and turned over, blinking away the spots in his vision. They were easily banished, the pain in his head dulling, but as always, half the world was dark.

His bedside lamp shone down into his face—he must've fallen asleep with it on. Turning his head, Dmitri saw that the book Tristan had recommended was lying on the floor a foot away; it'd probably been sent flying when he fell. He reached for it, freeing himself from the confines of his sheets and eventually managing to haul himself to his feet.

Dmitri stretched his wiry limbs and shook his hair out of his face—it was drenched in his sweat. He clutched the book in his hand, gazing down at the cover and sighing. It wasn't bad, surprisingly, like some of the things Tristan asked him to read. The thing about Tristan was his very broad taste—he found both boring informational texts _and_ adventure stories thrilling and compelling. He loved all books, and read several at a time, and when he finished them, he'd often tell Dmitri all about how amazing they were.

And the thing about Dmitri was his inability to say no. If Tristan physically put a book in his hand, saying "Trust me, it's brilliant, you'll love it," he simply couldn't refuse. Not because he didn't want to speak, but because it was enough that he didn't speak to his parabatai—he felt he should at least be able to accept an offer like that, to share with Tristan something he loved.

An ear-splitting scream rose up beneath his feet, and Dmitri dropped the book. Barefoot and half-dressed, he grabbed a shirt from the floor and pulled it on quickly before running out the door. The reaction was instinctive—you hear a scream, you investigate, or at least in his mind. As he tore down the steps in the dark, the scream faded out, only to return even louder.

It was gone by the time he skidded into the hallway, his door conveniently just down the hall from hers. It was Marie's room, he knew, and he dreaded going forward to make sure she was all right. But someone had to do it—his parents were sound asleep across the Institute, and even if Tristan was in his room around the corner, he was a terribly heavy sleeper. Dmitri sighed and padded silently towards the door.

He knocked and waited, hearing a stirring inside.

"Tristan?" she ventured. He had no way to deny it, so he just stood there in the dark hallway. Beyond the door, Marie was moving around, getting out of bed and walking. Walking towards the door. Dmitri thought about slinking away into the shadows, but she was already opening it, peering out at him. "Oh."

He lifted one hand in greeting. Dmitri wondered if she could see him well in this lighting, or if he was safe from her stormy eyes. They were the kind of eyes he hated the most—the kind that hadn't seen him, didn't know him, and were therefore the kind to judge.

"Dmitri?" she asked, opening the door wider. He froze at his name, and then nodded. He could see her, bathed in the light of her bedroom lamp, but he was sure that she could only make out his shape and maybe his toes where they edged into the light.

"Did I wake you, then?" Marie looked drained and exhausted, and even a little apologetic.

He shook his head.

"So you were up already. Good," she paused, her lips forming a straight line. "Or not good, I suppose, if you were having trouble sleeping. If so, it seems we have something in common."

He thought to himself that it was just the sort of thing Tristan would say in such a situation. Part of him relaxed—he was used to being talked to, very used to it. Tristan talked quite a bit to him, and it was pleasant until he asked too many non-rhetorical questions that couldn't be answered with a yes or a no. But part of him was still on edge, meeting her. To most of the Nephilim he'd met in the last seven years, he'd come across as a liability. Mute. Traumatized. Disabled.

Marie looked away from him, her eyes distant as she leaned in the doorframe.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said finally, without turning back to him. "Nightmares. You just can't fight them off. Reminds us that we aren't invincible."

He nodded in agreement, and she smiled sadly. For a moment, when she turned to Dmitri's outline in the darkness, it was like she wasn't really looking at him. Like she wasn't really there. There was something detached about her expression, far away but not quite lost. A moment ago he'd thought she was like Tristan, and perhaps she was, but she was also like him.

He made a split-second decision then, and before he could change his mind, Dmitri shifted ever so slightly so that his face was bathed in light.

* * *

The movement was deliberate, though he'd tried to make it seem otherwise. Marie could tell that much. Dmitri was a boy of the shadows, and he'd never be so careless as to accidentally emerge from the dark.

From the short glimpses she'd had, Marie had formed a mental picture of Dmitri, and he came quite close to it. His dark hair was long enough to fall across his face, and right now, it was stuck to his brow with sweat. He had a narrow face, with delicately curving cheekbones—there was a sort of regal look to him. Dmitri was built like a pole, with spindly-looking limbs covered in the traces of old Marks, and he was the same height as she was. He couldn't be the strongest Shadowhunter ever, but he must've been lithe and nimble enough to make up for it.

The scars were eye-catching, surely the reason he hid in the shadows so often. His right side seemed to be covered in long, gnarled scars that could only have come from claws of some sort. They went through his eye—which was slightly clouded over, giving Marie the suspicion that it had stopped working quite some time ago—and stretched down across his cheek. Then his neck and shoulder, and more of them winding down his arm.

She didn't think them ugly—the Nephilim had plenty of battle wounds, and she'd seen much worse in Idris. He seemed to be no older than seventeen or eighteen, though, and they were old wounds, inflicted when he was a child. That was what bothered her.

A muscle in his jaw jumped and his eyes were wide—a reaction to being vulnerable. Dmitri was watching her every move, wary of her reaction. He was afraid of the expression of her face, of what he expected her to say or not say. And she wasn't sure what sort of response was ideal. Was she meant to ignore it, his effort to reach out to her? Was she supposed to say something?

The silence stretching between them was uncomfortable, and it was very clearly stressing Dmitri out a bit. Marie took a deep breath.

"Dmitri," she said. "I don't know if you realized, but you're in your underwear."

He blinked and she mentally scolded herself for blurting the first thing that had come to mind. Dmitri's cheeks colored slightly and Marie forced a smile. It was painfully awkward.

"Um. Well. Goodnight," she said hastily and ducked back into her room. She shut the door behind her and leaned her forehead against it—anguishing over the awkwardness she'd created. But as the door had practically been slammed in his face, Marie had caught sight of Dmitri's mouth curving into a smile.

In the end, what she'd said was better than mentioning the scars, or ignoring his appearance completely. The ridiculousness just might've been worth it, because while making _her_ look silly, it had somehow made _him_ more comfortable.

And honestly, she wasn't really the one to be embarrassed. After all, Marie slept fully dressed.


	7. Curses

**Curses **

The door to Dmitri's room swung open easily, revealing the sunlit interior. The attic bedroom had only one window, just above the bed, facing east into the newly risen sun. Panels upon panels of light wood were bathed in the light, and it reflected off of the unsheathed saber in the corner—Dmitri's favorite weapon. Upon the desk near the door, Tristan spotted the book that he'd loaned to Dmitri, a piece of stationery sticking out of the pages about three-quarters of the way through. He picked it up and thumbed through it lovingly, and then turned to the lump on the bed that was swaddled in sheets and blankets.

He leapt up onto the mattress, jumping once, twice, three times, the top of his head nearly brushing the sloped ceiling above. The second time he jumped, Tristan noted that the bundle on the bed was not, in fact, his _parabatai_, but a copse of pillows passing for a sleeping boy. Where was Dmitri, he wondered as he jumped again, and then landed gracefully on the floor. He put the book in his hand down and scanned the room again, a crease forming between his brows.

Tristan headed out into the Institute, and after a few turns, he was back in the nave. His face was lit with blues and reds, and as he peered down into the pews, he raised an eyebrow. There were three places Dmitri could be at this time of morning—his room, the nave, or in the kitchen eating breakfast. Since he'd not seen Dmitri in the attic or in the pews, he wasn't sure whether to assume that the final option was the right one.

After all, the kitchen was the same place where he'd find Marie, and wherever she was, Dmitri wouldn't be.

Tristan headed down to the kitchen anyway, as he was starving. Dmitri would undoubtedly turn up by noon. He always did.

He skipped the last step on his way there. He'd stopped trusting last steps a long time ago and therefore always avoided them. It had become an unconscious habit instead of a conscious effort, like the way Dmitri slid into the shadows when footsteps approached, or the way Helena still hummed Dmitri's favorite lullabies while she cooked or gardened. Now, Tristan could hear her half-singing Lavender's Blue in the kitchen as he walked, inhaling the cinnamon-laced scent of French toast. The door was open, light and voices spilling into the hallway.

"Isaac, would you stop that," said Helena as Tristan walked in. He watched as Isaac Hightower balanced an egg on the back of his hand, tilting and swaying in his attempts to keep it from falling. "You'll break it."

"It's an egg, my love, not a priceless figurine," was Isaac's reply as his face rippled with concentration. He was, of course, referencing the incident in which he'd accidentally shattered a small porcelain angel with bejeweled wings—it had just slipped out of his hands, which may or may not have been covered in butter and grease from supper. "I suppose the cleanup will be worse, but the sound when it hits the ground will be much less cringe-worthy."

His wife swatted at him with a dish towel, and from her place at the table, Marie laughed. Tristan smiled, realizing that he hadn't really heard her laugh before. He grinned at the whole room, especially the figures seated at the table. Marie, twirling a fork in her hand, and Dmitri, leaning back in his chair so that two of the legs hovered above the ground. He was smiling, genuinely smiling without Tristan's help, and it was heart-lifting to see it.

He wondered what had changed, why his _parabatai_ was suddenly so carefree around Marie. It usually took him so long to warm up to people, days or weeks or months, but today seemed to be an exception. Tristan watched quietly as the Hightowers pulled each other close and kissed each other quite heatedly for a kitchen, and Dmitri glanced at Marie and she glanced back and they both dissolved into childish giggles. Who was this girl, really? How did she make Dmitri look so content when they'd barely met?

How did she capture Tristan's interest as she had? Yes, there was the initial curiosity that had to be quenched, but his connection to her was not purely a matter of _newness_. It couldn't be. He'd never really thought about girls so much, a consequence of living with only the Hightowers in the twisting labyrinth of the Institute, and spending so much time in the shadows of bookshelves, inhaling the inky scent of printed pages. But Marie drew him to her like a moth to a flame, with stormy eyes and gold-woven curls.

"Oh, hello Tristan," said Isaac, pulling away from Helena and leaning back against the counter. It made him seem shorter than he actually was, and he was already a bit shorter than Tristan. Even Dmitri had passed him up, Mr. Hightower was that small. But he made up for it in the way he carried himself, and the broadness of his shoulders and his sizable biceps. "I didn't see you there."

"You face has been otherwise engaged," Tristan said, striding the rest of the way into the kitchen and peering at the pans. Helena was making an omelet in one pan, and another batch of bacon in the other. Before peeling away from the island, he picked an apple out of the fruit bowl and bit into it—it was the perfect consistency, crisp and tart and juicy all at once.

Isaac grinned and straightened his suit jacket. He was a sharp dresser, feeling that since he was the head of the Institute he had better look it. Not that his pinstripes and ties gave him an extra amount of authority—it was his presence that did, as well as the fact that the only people he really governed most of the time were his family, and to them he was just the steady father figure who could dress in a kitten sweater and still be viewed the same way. (Though it would make Dmitri laugh, and just about everyone appreciated it when Dmitri laughed.)

"And I see you've made a friend," Tristan said, taking a seat at the table. He looked at Dmitri with his eyebrows raised, silently asking a million questions. Dmitri looked well, not grinning quite as widely as before but still smiling, and his eyes were lit enough for Tristan to know that it was true. He'd been known to fake a smile for Tristan's benefit, or wordlessly bluff his way through social interaction to please his parents or his _parabatai_ or the other party involved. But this, this wasn't forced. How she'd made her way in so easily, so seamlessly, was fascinating.

"Oh, yes, we met last night," said Marie distractedly, taking a large bite of French toast.

"When?"

"Around midnight, maybe?" She looked up at Dmitri, who shrugged. Tristan must've made some sort of face, because Marie sighed and explained further. "He heard a sound and came to my door like the chivalrous gentleman he is."

Dmitri rolled his eyes, his humility overtaking him.

"He forgot his pants," she added. Tristan laughed.

"That's Dmitri for you," he said jokingly, reaching out and shaking Dmitri by the shoulder. "The silent, pantsless hero."

Marie smiled, and looked down at her breakfast, shaking her head at the ridiculousness. Mr. Hightower sauntered over and mussed Tristan and Dmitri's hair at once, grinning proudly. It was obvious that Tristan wasn't the only one impressed by Dmitri's midnight trip to Marie's door—it was like a breakthrough to the Hightowers. Their boy was stepping out of the shadows, at least temporarily.

_Baby steps,_ thought Tristan, smiling to himself. He was in no hurry.

* * *

When Tristan invited her up to the training room, Marie agreed very hesitantly. The last time she'd been there still weighed on her mind, and that hour or so of solitude was precious to her. It was hers alone. She wasn't sure if going back with Dmitri and Tristan would spoil the resonance of it or not, but she decided to take the chance.

As soon as the boys started sparring, however, she regretted it. Even when fighting each other, they moved intuitively and together, smoothly throwing and deflecting blow after blow. Tristan was bigger and stronger, but Dmitri moved with catlike grace and precision. She watched as they made steady and consistent eye contact, flashing smirks every few minutes, sharing private amusement over trying to beat each other senseless. She'd entered the room with the purpose of observing—learning about them from their techniques and skills. What she got instead was a little bit of insight and a whole lot of painful jealousy.

Combat had always been frighteningly beautiful to Marie, especially with _parabatai_. There was this security and elegance in the fact that two warriors could be tethered to each other in such a way, their strengths mingling and reinforcing one another. She remembered having that with Lisette.

Marie had once believed that after so many battles, a Shadowhunter's weapon became like an extension of herself. Parabatai were like that too, even more so, because it was so much easier to part with a sword or dagger than one's other half. Losing Lisette had ended her belief that any object could be as much a part of her as her own hands, but she would always believe in the connection of the parabatai, even as the cord withered away into nothing, and her rune faded more and more each day.

She'd politely excused herself after watching a while, vanishing into the depths of the Institute where hopefully, they wouldn't find her. She'd found a darkened spare room with drawn shades and a ragged old armchair, which she sunk into and cried for a spell. Chicago was supposed to be better, and it was—there was always going to be reminders of Lisette. The house in Idris overflowed with them: her voice echoed off the walls, her bedroom door loomed in the hall. At least these foreign corridors and strange boys were something new to focus on instead of the piercing nostalgia she'd faced every time she opened her eyes.

A little while later, she returned to her room to find Dmitri leaving a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil on her bedside table. He smiled sheepishly at her before leaving, two more of them in his hand. That was the last she saw of him for the day, because after eating it, she fell asleep sprawled across the covers and stayed that way all through dinner. The sun had already set by the time she woke, and the clock told her it was later than she thought.

Since she felt so rested and there was nothing else to do, Marie went for a walk. She wondered if she'd stumble across anything interesting in the dark corridors of the Institute, a secret something or other. Tristan, no doubt, knew where to find all the hidden wonders, and Dmitri as well. He might as well have been one of them, he was so keen to staying in the dark.

When Marie first saw his scars, she'd felt sad for him, but only for a moment because she knew what unwelcome pity was like. She wondered what went through his head when he looked in the mirror, of if he ever looked in a mirror, and she wondered if the same incident had caused his silence. He was probably physically capable of speech, but for some reason he kept every thought to himself, and she was very curious as to why.

In fact, her curiosity was piqued at the very idea of Dmitri. There was a story behind his scars, behind his haunted eyes, and she couldn't help but wonder.

Moonlight drifted in through the tall windows of the back corridor, lighting sections of the floor she walked on. The pale glow made her skin seem ghostly in the dark. She didn't know why she was headed towards the library, specifically, but she did know that it was a place she wanted to visit again. If not for the interestingness of it, then for the painting above the mantel, the smile of her mother. She had never seen her mother smile like that, so youthful and carefree. That part of Adrienne Fairstrider had disappeared long before Marie could even put her shoes on the right feet by herself.

The stairs creaked underfoot as she made her way to the underground library. Even though there were no windows here, the staircase seemed a lot more foreboding in the night. Marie wasn't afraid, of course, as she'd outgrown her fear of the dark when she turned three. Perhaps five—her younger years all blurred together in her head, a mess of lost teeth and curly pigtails and following Lisette around like a brand new puppy.

"Fuck," Marie hissed under her breath as the last step gave way under her foot again. She'd forgotten about that. Hopefully, she wouldn't go to hell for cursing in the basement of what was once a place of worship. Muttering to herself, she made her way down the dimly lit hallway towards the library. The deep reddish wood of the doors stood out against the dark stone walls, cracked open slightly so that light spilled into the corridor. Marie would wager that Tristan had been the one to leave it that way.

She wondered if he was still in there, pouring over page after page of text. He seemed like the type to pull all-nighters without even realizing he was doing it.

Upon stepping into the library, Marie took a moment to take it all in again. The first time, Tristan had allowed her more than enough time to look, as he spent forever marveling at it himself. But Marie felt she needed to give it another glance, to see if she'd missed any of the splendor. It was very nice, and she could see why Tristan loved it so much, with its elegant chandelier and towering bookshelves—it was a reader's paradise. Marie wasn't an avid reader. Marie liked libraries because of the hushed atmosphere that came with them, and the art of the ages stacked upon the shelves.

Unsurprisingly, Tristan was sprawled out on the floor near the fireplace, his head resting sideways atop a copy of the Codex. He'd fallen asleep, drooling and snoring very softly, his eyelids fluttering. He didn't stir as she walked over, sitting on the couch across from where he lay.

"Tristan," said Marie. She picked up a book and tossed it lightly in his direction; it barely grazed his shoulder. He shifted only slightly, mumbling something in his sleep. She wondered if he was dreaming. "_Tristan_," she repeated, louder this time. Nothing. He certainly was a heavy sleeper.

Marie gazed at the painting, the hills of Idris captured perfectly on the canvas. She could see the window of what had been her bedroom in the house on the hill, and she could see the Durant family ring delicately painted on her mother's finger. Where Lisette's brush strokes were erratic, their father's had been calculated and precise. She wondered how he'd fought, with knives or sword or Seraph, with brutality or with finesse.

Tristan groaned and rolled on his back, blinking.

"By the Angel," he muttered, wiping his face. "I'm like a bloody sheepdog, drooling all over the damned place." He sat up, cradling the Codex in his hands and inspecting the damage. Marie wasn't sure if he'd even noticed her.

She remained silent as he clucked over the book, concerned about smearing the ink or tearing the already brittle pages. When he finally looked over, he frowned at her.

"Oh. Hello. I suppose this makes me a hypocrite."

"What?" she asked, confused.

"I told you not to swear in the church," said Tristan, hauling himself to his feet. He reverently closed the Codex and set it on the coffee table before sitting down beside her. "And I've just done it myself. Hypocrisy. When did you get here?"

"I haven't been here long," she replied. "Maybe ten minutes, give or take. By the looks of it, you'd been asleep long before I arrived."

"Damn," he said softly.

"There you go again, you cursing hypocrite," said Marie dryly. He laughed, just as she'd hoped.

"Happens a lot," Tristan smiled. "Actually, at least twice a week Dmitri finds me down here in the morning, draped over the chair or curled up between the shelves. It's madness."

"Not to mention it must be hell on your sleeping patterns."

"Exactly—I sleep in all the wrong places at all the wrong times. Hey, you said hell. Who's the curser now?"

"Is curser even a word?" asked Marie. Tristan huffed.

"Of course it is. Even if it wasn't it would be now because I created it," he said. "I gave it meaning. That's what words are, a jumble of symbols that represent sounds, and mean something to our miraculous little brains. Curser, whether it was a word before or not, is a real word because it has a meaning."

"You're too much," she said, smiling at him. When Tristan wasn't too busy being inquisitive, he was really quite funny. Then again, she wasn't sure if his spiel about words was supposed to be funny—he could be serious. Either way, it made her smile.

"Well, you mentioned my sleep patterns. What about yours?" he asked, changing the subject. "Why are you here at half past eleven in the evening? Are you nocturnal? Dmitri is sometimes, or maybe it's a sort of insomnia—I'm not sure, I've never really asked. I should, shouldn't I? He has these night terrors sometimes and they keep him awake, so he wanders about the halls—have you run into him?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, well, that's a pity. If you had I'd go find him, so we could all sit about blabbering on together. Well, you and I, seeing as he isn't much for speech. But he's a good guy, the shy and gentle kind, you know?"

"Why is that?" she asked. "Why doesn't he speak, I mean?"

"Well, he can," Tristan explained. Marie had assumed that Dmitri was physically able to talk, because he could laugh and make sounds of pleasure or contempt, putting to use his vocal chords. "He simply chooses not to. I'm not sure exactly why, really, but it hardly matters."

"So he doesn't talk at all, not even with you?"

"Very rarely. He's like…I don't know, I'm thinking moose but that doesn't seem right. Something that's almost always quiet unless there's a need to be loud."

"Moose?"

"Yes, yes, absurdities. I spout absurdities quite often, Marie," said Tristan, leaning back against the couch. He looked over at her, grinning. "But I loved Dmitri long before he stopped with the talking business and I love him still. He's my _parabatai_."

She nodded, understanding. She and Lisette had been inseparable for the longest time, clinging to each other always. Losing Lisette had been like losing herself, only more painful.

"Tristan?" she asked. "Where…where did Dmitri's scars come from?"

His eyes lost their focus. He stared off into space for the longest of moments before snapping back to attention and turning back to her. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"His scars, Tristan. What are they from?" she repeated herself. He sucked in a breath and nodded—the question clearly put him on edge. She was unsurprised, as he was so close with Dmitri, some of the other boy's metaphysical wounds would be sensitive subjects for him. She tried to look docile, hoping it'd persuade him to disclose at least a fraction of the story.

Finally he sighed, caving. "All right, but only because he's not going to tell you himself. It was a kind of practice prowl thing, we went out in the night to brush up on stealth and things. Long story short, we stumbled right into a werewolf brawl. They were pissed, I tell you, flying at us from every direction. We hardly knew what to do—the _parabatai _bond was new, and we weren't used to being so connected, and that only made us worse in the fight."

"How old were you?" she interrupted.  
"Ten," he replied. "Seven years ago."

He continued: "We were doing surprisingly well, until this big brute knocked me down. I was in and out of consciousness at this point, but I remember the world swaying and spinning as growled and snarled and made a move to finish me off. I thought I'd die, I really did. But Dmitri was shouting my name and running, and the wolf was howling, and I completely blacked out. The next thing I knew I was in the infirmary and Dmitri was covered in bandages and surrounded by Silent Brothers.

"They couldn't completely heal the lacerations, not smoothly anyway. So they scarred," Tristan sighed, running his hand over his hair. "He locked himself in his room for days, and wouldn't talk to anyone. He lost all vision in his right eye and could hardly walk without stumbling and bumping into things. He tried to use his sword a few months later and almost cut off his own foot. It was…hard. He was lost. I'm not going to say I don't miss talking to him, but I'm not going to force him either—he needs support, you know? I'm not going to say I don't miss the old days when everything was good, or that I don't wish it never happened, but those scars? He got them because he leapt between me and an angry werewolf. He saved my life."

A quiet settled over the room.

"That's what _parabatai _do, Tristan. Keep each other alive. Save each other or die trying, that sort of thing."

"I know. We've saved each other's asses countless times; it's just that one time that touches me the most. We had no idea what we were doing, and the bond was still maturing, and all this shit was going down, but Dmitri saved me."

Marie bit back tears. Dmitri could save Tristan and vice versa, countless times, but she hadn't been able to save Lisette when it truly mattered. And now Lisette was gone.

She struggled to keep her breathing regular as Tristan looked on. His eyes went soft and sympathetic, and she knew that he'd seen and heard enough to realize that she was broken. He stared at her, his lips parted, but he seemed at a loss for words.

Finally he murmured, "Your sister."

"How'd you know?" she somehow managed to keep her voice even and her eyes averted.

"I knew there was something pushing you out of Idris. Isaac mentioned a death in the family. I had no idea…oh God, Marie…"

"No, it's fine. Don't say you're sorry."

"I wasn't going to. I was going to say, 'I can't imagine.' I can't."

Silence ensued. Very tentatively, Tristan reached for her hand to hold it, and she let him wrap her fingers in his for some sense of comfort, some sense of connection. And there was some sort of connection with this boy, something small and flickering, but it was there.


	8. Lisette

**Lisette**

"We really ought to be training."

"We are. We're running for our lives, aren't we?"

Marie sighed and picked up her pace. Lisette adjusted her own pace accordingly, grinning. She knew she was faster, and she knew her endurance was higher. Marie would always fall behind. Marie didn't like running nearly as much as Lisette did, didn't enjoy the sensation of the wind in her hair—she thought it too much like someone pulling on her curls. But run they did.

"She's not going to follow us," Marie panted. "And she's going to be there when we get home."

Their mother was angry again. Lisette had spilled paint and added to the many stains that covered the carpet. To escape a scolding and a lecture, the two of them had fled, their mother shouting after them as they bolted out the back door. In their absence she would discover the mess, and without Marie and Lisette in sight, it would be easier for the aunts to distract her. _Running for their lives _was a gross exaggeration, but Lisette always exaggerated.

"Hyperbole," she'd say if you told her, "is an art."

To Lisette, everything was an art.

* * *

Lisette was about eleven when she started painting. The talent was there, but she did have to practice a lot and build skill before she would even trust herself to use a real canvas. Marie remembered stumbling across blank canvases in the attic, and old paintings signed Oliver Fairstrider. Lisette had been so curious, so inspired—she confronted their mother and it led to a falling out between them; their mother being so distraught that she left the house, Lisette so defiant that she carried all of the paintings downstairs and kept them in her room.

Marie was glad for it; she liked looking at their father's work. He'd captured the skyline of Alicante precisely, and the grace of Shadowhunters in battle. Marie's favorite was a self-portrait he'd done of himself as a teenager, the only distinguishable figure in a sea of many—it reminded her of some days at the Academy, when it was so easy to be lost in the crowd. Lisette had always claimed that she had no favorite, but it wasn't true. The piece she hung above her bed had more color than the others, and more meaning to Lisette than any of them. It was her bedroom, the ceiling and the lambs, but with a pair of cribs instead of a bed, and without all the clutter. A young version of their mother cradled a small bundle near the window, and a toddler sat at her feet with a teddy bear in her lap—the same bear that perched on Lisette's pillow.

Later, their mother had told them that Lisette's favorite was the last work of Oliver Fairstrider. He'd died a week after its completion, when he'd tried to paint Lake Lyn and instead found himself in a watery grave.

Lisette painted like a madwoman after finding out, producing a particularly chilling portrait of his demise, among other things. For a year, she hardly trained, preferring to paint. She built her skills and ignored the ridicule thrown her way. Marie thought it made her feel closer to their father, and her suspicions were confirmed when Lisette painted Alicante from the same viewpoint as he had—her style was less precise, but she was satisfied enough that her painting spree wound down.

The next year, she asked Marie to be her _parabatai_, and focused on that instead of her art. She still painted, but not as obsessively. One night, leading up to the ceremony that would tie them together, Marie found her in front of the fireplace. When she drew closer, she saw the flames curling around a small canvas—the joined hands of a man and a little girl.

"Why burn it?" she'd asked as Lisette's painting curled and blackened. Lisette seemed unsurprised as she turned to look at Marie, as if she'd been there the whole time.

"Because," said Lisette softly, "I painted it because I wanted it. That bond." She gestured to the fire, as the Fairstrider ring on the man's finger was touched by a flame. "The bond that never had a chance. It's a lost dream, Marie, and there's no use dwelling on a lost dream."

"But Dad…"

"Was gone before we knew him," Lisette finished. "He's not a memory; he never happened. There's a difference between what you know and what you could've had. Mother remembers, but for us…he can only ever be something we lost, something we never had. So this painting is a lost dream, a bond that doesn't matter anymore."

Lisette reached for Marie's hand, threading their fingers together. "This is the bond that matters," she said. "You and me, little sister. Forever."

* * *

It wasn't forever. Marie was twelve when they were bound as _parabatai_, and Lisette was almost fourteen. They trained together, fought together, and spent most of their time together. Running from spilled paint with Lisette was just another part of it, like listening to her random musings or watching her paint. They orbited around each other, bound by blades and paintbrushes and a set of matching runes—it felt infinite. It had always felt infinite.

But it wasn't.

Lisette had just turned eighteen when disaster struck. When the wards came down. Marie was the one who persuaded her to come along, to fight off the demons that were invading the city instead of hiding away in their creaky old house. Their mother resisted, of course, and the house was in an uproar for five minutes before they left. Dark runes covered their limbs—enhancing their speed and endurance as they ran the whole way to Alicante.

It was so fast, the fighting. They jumped into the fray as soon as they arrived. Together they brought down a demon, ran down the street, and found another. Repetitive, adrenaline filled moments leading up to the turning point that neither of them really expected.

Nephilim aren't surprised by death; it is a constant in the life of a Shadowhunter. But the thing about mortality is that death comes quickly, easily. Death is always unexpected and unpredictable, even when you risk so much each day, even when you approach it gradually over time. It comes in the space of a blink, in the beat of a racing heart, and then it's over.

Lisette was only yards away when the demon launched itself upon her. She tried to fight it off, and Marie tried to get to her in time. But it had the upper hand, pinning her down as she screamed for Marie, and slashing through her torso like it was paper. Marie tackled and killed the demon as Lisette struggled to stay alive, and it went on for what seemed like forever.

The demon was dead, but Lisette had stopped fighting. She submitted with a shaky breath, her final words having been her cries for help. Help that didn't come soon enough.

Marie collapsed beside her, unable to find the energy necessary to weep over her body. She simply lay there in the blood, pretending that the words of the oath were the unswerving truth.

_Wither thou diest, will I die_

_ And there will I be buried. _

* * *

They burned her body, of course. It was custom. Marie dressed in pure, clean white, but she did not feel untarnished. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a shadow of Lisette in her own features—the same delicate nose and mouth, and similar eyes. They were the same color, but they'd never held the same light. The day of Lisette's funeral, Marie's eyes had never been more like overcast skies.

Worse than the guilt was the emptiness, the ache of absence settling in her bones. She used to be able to feel her sister, but now there was nothing. The sleek black rune on her back looked old and outdated, like it was fading, and it was sore to the touch. Who was she now, without Lisette? She could never be so wise, or so wild. She couldn't wield a paintbrush, or run with the same swiftness. They'd been a pair, and now Marie was alone. The canvas without the artist.

As Lisette's body was engulfed by flame, Marie couldn't help but remember the burning painting in the fireplace a few years back. She couldn't help but think to herself that Lisette—her _parabatai_ and her sister—was anything but a lost dream.


	9. Sympathy

**Sympathy **

Tristan had no particular routine. All three Hightowers ran on subconscious schedules, but Tristan went through his days as he pleased. It was not surprising when he did not appear in the attic that morning to wake Dmitri, and it wasn't unheard of for him to miss breakfast. Dmitri just assumed he was still in the library, drooling on his precious books and ledgers. He ate the buttermilk pancakes his mother put in front of him like the dutiful son he was, and listened to her singing and his father's talk as he always did.

"Where's the girl, then?" asked his father around a mouthful of bacon and egg. Dmitri looked around, realizing that some time had passed since he'd sat down, and that Marie was absent from her seat at the table. He shrugged in reply, as he really had no idea where she might be.

"No worries, dear, Marie is probably just sleeping in," said his mother. "She can feed herself if need be."

Dmitri nodded and finished his breakfast. He put the plate in the sink and let his mother kiss his cheek before exiting the kitchen swiftly. The way to the library was easy—actually, there was more than one route, but Dmitri did not feel like seeking them out now. Instead he went out into the nave and rounded the staircase on his right. Three sets of doors lined each wall of the large room, and Dmitri opened the closest one and ducked through it. This corridor wrapped around most of the building, with many entrances and exits along the way. The ceiling was high and slanted, and arched windows let in the sunlight, which made the stones in the wall cast shadows against each other. He walked only a short way, his boots thumping against the floor, before he came upon the arched doorway with the cherubs carved into it.

Dmitri slid through the doorway and started down the stairs, feeling the chill as he made his way further underground. Of course he didn't have to go looking for Tristan, as Tristan wasn't actually missing, but he did it anyway. He did it because otherwise, he'd spend the morning skulking around the Institute on his own. He'd rather this day be filled with his _parabatai_'s yammering than the dreary silence of unoccupied hallways.

He sighed at the carnage of the bottom step and continued on, glad for the shadowy corridor that spanned before him. Tristan's favorite place to be was the library, with his tomes full of knowledge and his wondering mind, but Dmitri didn't really have a favorite place. He liked the music room for its instruments, the way the ivory piano keys sounded as he ran his fingers over them, the vibrations of violin strings as he plucked at them. He liked passageways and corners for their dimness, the ability to hide him from the world around him. His room had his collection of music; the countless songs that he'd memorized but would never sing, and his notebook full of scratched out lines and doodles but nothing he was actually proud of.

The library door was open. Dmitri checked between some of the shelves nearest to the door, wondering if Tristan might be there, but he gave up quickly. The hearth was where Tristan fell asleep most often, where he piled up colonies of books that he wouldn't put away for a week. Dmitri thought that if he wasn't there, he'd surrender his search entirely.

As he approached the fireplace he noted that the two armchairs were empty, but he could see the outline of a shape on the loveseat and a flicker of sluggish movement—the way a person moves when they are very deeply asleep. Dmitri sauntered over and looked down at Tristan's sleeping form, not entirely surprised to see Marie curled up next to him.

Tristan's arm was wrapped loosely around her and her head rested near his shoulder, one of her legs draped over his. She'd pulled her arms close to her chest, and his face was half concealed by her hair, though the strands nearest to his mouth shifted ever-so-slightly with his breath. Dmitri smiled despite himself and cleared his throat loudly.

Marie stirred and rubbed her eyes, yawning. Of course she would wake at the sound, but Tristan was unaffected. Dmitri stood there as Marie shook off the remnants of her slumber and began to register where she was. She pulled away from Tristan with widened eyes and looked to Dmitri, who stared steadily back.

"Um…" she said, her face flushed. Dmitri raised an eyebrow.

Tristan grumbled something in his sleep and adjusted his position. Dmitri watched as his brow furrowed, as if it took a considerable amount of effort to rouse himself. Knowing Tristan, it probably did. He stretched his fingers and wiggled his toes, and his head tipped back to reveal a pair of half-open eyes. _And the dragon awakes_, Dmitri thought to himself with an internalized chuckle.

"Is it morning already?" he asked groggily. Dmitri nodded while Marie shrank father away from Tristan. She wouldn't look him in the eye. Tristan turned to her and smiled sleepily; the way he looked at her reminded Dmitri of how he looked at a particular book when he'd spent a long time searching for it among the towering shelves. "My, how time flies when you're completely unconscious."

"Um, yeah," said Marie as she got to her feet. "I'm going to get breakfast."

She nearly bumped into Dmitri as she hurried in the direction of the exit. Both boys watched her disappear into the fortress of books, her stride guarded and graceful. Tristan sighed.

"She always does that," he said woefully. "Am I terrible at socialization or something?"

Dmitri tried to look thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. He was smirking, though, and Tristan rolled his eyes. Dmitri sat down beside him and leaned back against the cushions, still smiling crookedly. He wanted some sort of explanation, whether it be simple or very complex, and he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Tristan gave in easily, as he was probably dying to talk to someone about the whole affair anyway. "She came down in the middle of the night, don't know why, but I just woke up to see her there," he said, gesturing to where Dmitri now sat. "We talked a bit, shooting banter and whatnot. It was nice. And then she asked…" Tristan's expression darkened.

Dmitri motioned for him to continue.

"All right, she asked about you, and what happened," he muttered. "And I told her, summarized it all up a bit. I don't regret it, I'm not sorry I told her. I'm just sorry if it bothers you any, because the last thing I wanted was to make you uncomfortable or anything, I swear. She was curious and you know how I am and…well, I think she ought to know, okay?"

Dmitri frowned. He didn't much like the fact that Tristan had told, but he forgave him. Tristan was not a person who could keep things under wraps, as he was prone to speaking profusely. He couldn't really expect his _parabatai_ to not tell the story; storytelling was one of his favorite things to do, even if the story is so personal. And while Tristan wasn't the "damaged" one, the incident still affected him. He was grateful, proud, and unashamed of it. Sometimes, Dmitri was ashamed that he didn't always remember it the same way.

"She cried," Tristan added simply.

Dmitri blinked in surprise and looked over at his friend, who stared at the cold and empty fireplace. _Of course she did_, he thought. People always reacted that way, as if it was this horrible trauma that ruined him, and they shed tears because they felt sorry for him. They forgot about his heroism, and the fact that he and his _parabatai_ were still alive and well because of it. They only saw his blindness and his scars and thought, _the poor thing, how sad is that?_

Tristan turned back to him and looked confused—his face must've expressed the distaste he was feeling. Dmitri watched as the realization hit him, as his bewilderment turned to resignation. Whatever friendship had been forming between Dmitri and Marie was slowly dissolving, and there wasn't anything Tristan could do about it. He couldn't befriend those who gave him nothing but sympathy—he'd thought she was different, but she wasn't.

"Did she tell you why she left Idris?" asked Tristan gravely. Dmitri shook his head, and Tristan heaved a sigh. A heavier sigh than before, when Marie left. "You think she cried over you, of course, because everything's about you."

Dmitri was taken aback.

"Don't look at me like that," Tristan said. "You could let me finish my explanation before judging her, Dmitri. Even if it was about you, you've no right to act betrayed. What happened to you isn't exactly a story of sunshine and rainbows, dammit, and people are going to react with sympathy or whatever because they're only human.

"Marie doesn't think you're weak and damaged, Dmitri. She thinks you're strong. She thinks you're lucky."

Dmitri let out a short and bitter laugh.

"No, Dmitri. There are worse things to lose," said Tristan, leaning forward and taking him by the shoulders. "She thinks you're lucky because you still have me."

* * *

Hours after fleeing the library, Marie went looking for Tristan again. The parlor on the second floor was where she'd taken refuge, and like the training room, it overlooked the worn-down neighborhood around them. She didn't mind.

After putting a considerable amount of thought into the events of the night before, as well as earlier that morning, she decided that she ought to have a discussion with Tristan. He wasn't down the hall in the training room with Dmitri, nor was he on the second floor at all. She didn't know where his room was, so she decided to go downstairs and check the library again.

She called his name as she weaved between the shelves, but it was only a short while before she decided that he wasn't there, either. On her way back up, she hoped to run into someone who might know where he was, or even Tristan himself, but everyone was hidden away in a different part of the Institute. For a family, they sure did spend a lot of time apart.

Marie was heading back to her room to read one of her own battered paperbacks, The Secret Garden, Lisette's favorite book in the world. She had picked it up because of the cover art, but over the years she'd read it over and over, creasing the spine and turning the pages so enthusiastically that some of them tore a bit. Now, Marie was trying to get through it herself for the first time. She'd tried many times before, when Lisette was still alive, but she could never quite get herself into the story. Now that it was one of the only things she had left of her sister, she was beginning to cherish it more than she ever had.

The third floor was smaller than the other levels, so there were only a few ways to navigate it. Marie took a different stairwell than the one she'd been using, and there was a longer walk between where she stood and her slightly open bedroom door. The hallway had a few doors along it, she noted as she walked, but the rooms were mostly vacant. She knew that Mr. and Mrs. Hightower slept on the second floor, and that Dmitri's room was close enough to hers that he could arrive there in thirty seconds. Tristan had never mentioned where he slept, and she had a lingering suspicion that he really just lived in the library.

Of course, that was proved wrong as she continued down the hallway. One of the doors to her left was wide open, and light pooled onto the carpet before her. She looked inside as she passed, seeing that the window was wide open to let in the breeze. The room was furnished in almost the same way hers was, a bed and a dresser, a chair and a table. There was also a desk in this room, and clothes were strewn all over the floor.

It very obviously belonged to Tristan, judging by the stacks of books against the walls and the shirt on the ground near the door—it was the same one he'd been wearing the morning she arrived. However, it didn't look like he was there. She was about to turn and walk away when she saw something move on the other side of the bed.

She ventured forward to investigate, sure that she'd find Tristan asleep on the floor or something. When she approached, however, she was surprised by what she found. It was an old terrier, its dark fur streaked with grey. She leaned down and let it sniff her hand before petting it lightly on its back. Marie hadn't known there was a dog in the Institute, but really, there was a lot she didn't know about this place and its inhabitants. She was learning new things every day.

She heard footsteps across the floor and the bed beside her shook as Tristan leapt up onto it. He peered over the edge and grinned down at her.

"I see you've met Archie," he said, reaching down to scratch the dog between his ears. "He's a pleasant little fellow, isn't he? The only time he makes a noise is when he needs to be let out, and it's basically just a short little bark while he sits at the door, waiting."

"Uh, yeah, sorry I just walked in…"

"The door was open," said Tristan. "In my book, that's enough of an invitation. I saw you walk in when I was leaving the bathroom. That reminds me, I probably forgot to put the seat down. One moment." He pushed himself up off the bed and left the room, returning a moment later with a satisfied look on his face. "There."

Marie smiled and shook her head at him. He leaned back over the edge of the bed, his hair flopping about as he grinned back at her. The dog stood and licked the hand that dangled in front of him, and Tristan laughed lightly.

"So, I was actually looking for you," said Marie, clearing her throat. Tristan started moving his hand around Archie's head, smiling as the dog leaned into his touch every time.

"Were you?" he asked. "I've been in here a while."

"Yes, but I didn't know that," she replied. "I looked in the library."

"I am in there quite a lot," he said. Marie nodded.

"Anyway, about last night…" she trailed off, unsure of what to say. Tristan turned his head towards her again, the look in his eyes urging her to continue. "What I told you, about my sister…"

"Oh, it wasn't meant to be confidential, was it?" he interrupted, sliding back up onto the bed and propping himself up on his elbows. Worry crossed his face, and Marie frowned. "I keep doing this, don't I, saying things I shouldn't? First I told you the deal with Dmitri, and now I told him about you. Jesus. I'm sorry."

"What? Was he upset?" she asked. She hadn't meant to pry when she asked about Dmitri's scars, she'd only been curious.

"No, not really," said Tristan guiltily. "But I told him about Lisette, and why you left Idris. I swear I didn't say everything though, just that she…um…I should stop talking."

"It's okay," Marie said, standing up and sitting on the edge of the mattress, right beside him. Archie curled up at her feet and closed his eyes. "It's not a secret." She lifted her hair away from her neck and pulled at the back of her shirt so that the rune peeked out. "There's even physical evidence. What I was saying, Tristan, is that I don't want to be treated differently because I lost her. When people tread carefully around me, it's just another reminder that she's dead."

"It's not your fault, you know," he said softly, looking up at her. "Whenever you talk about her, you look so guilty. Don't blame yourself, Marie, okay?"

He looked so untainted then, so innocent, like a child. The way he looked at her, it was hard not to agree. "Okay," she said, nodding.

"We're Shadowhunters," he continued. "Bad things happen to the people we love. They die young, get scarred or partially blinded, but we can't go blaming ourselves. We just have to move on, you know? We love, we lose, and we keep fighting."


	10. Magic

**Magic **

The very next day, they went out on a hunt.

As Tristan sat down to breakfast, between Marie and Dmitri, Isaac strode in with a grave look on his face. That really only meant one thing: something in the city was wrong, and it was their job to fix it. Sometimes Mr. Hightower would excuse the boys from going out into the world and killing things. They weren't the only Shadowhunters in Chicago, after all, and Isaac would usually just figure out who was closest to the problem and ask very nicely for them to deal with it. But sometimes it was easier to send Tristan and Dmitri out together; they needed the experience, and it was their duty to extinguish demonic activity just as much as it was his. Tristan knew that Dmitri resented every hunt he missed because of his father; it made him feel weak and useless, even though Isaac wasn't being protective at all. He just thought that the other Nephilim he sent were more conveniently located.

Tristan gave him a questioning look, and Mr. Hightower nodded. Yes, there was trouble, and yes, he would be sending them.

"You're looking cheerful," Tristan finally said, leaning back in his chair. He bit into a banana and watched the head of the Institute as he stood in the center of the kitchen. "Tell me, Mr. Hightower, what is the nature of the oncoming storm?"

Dmitri's eyes darted towards his father as he grasped the situation. Helena turned around and looked on, not worried, but not particularly happy about it either. Marie didn't react much at all, just continued peeling the orange in front of her. The citrusy scent of it filled Tristan's nose as he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She picked off little pieces of the peel instead of large sections, and they accumulated in a pile before her.

"A few Moloch demons have gathered in the park just down the road. I was going to send the Montanari twins with you, but I was informed over the phone by their youngest sister that they've been in Idris for the last week," said Isaac, repeatedly adjusting himself as he did so. Tristan realized that he was trying to keep from breaking character; from turning into the adored father and husband. He always had difficulty being the stoic leader before his family, and to him, it was even more important not to waver because of Marie. Marie, who was new to their household and still not on familiar terms with him. "While hunting down a group of demons like this is too much for two people, I think the three of you can handle the situation."

Marie stopped peeling her orange.

"Wait, you mean me?" she asked. "Like me and the boys?"

"Yeah," Tristan answered before Mr. Hightower had the chance. "Of course he does. Why, haven't you been out on an errand before?"

Of course, Tristan thought his use of the word _errand_ was quite clever. And of course, everyone else was utterly unimpressed.

"What? Yes, of course, you know I have," she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. "What do you think I've been training for all this time? Waitressing?"

"Children," said Mr. Hightower. "Finish your breakfasts and make haste. The demons aren't going to kill themselves."

He turned and left without eating, despite his wife's protests. Dmitri scowled, displeased at being called a child, and Marie started to pull apart the sections of orange. Tristan leaned on the table and smirked at her. She glanced at him.

"You're awfully enthusiastic," she said. Even though her face was decidedly unexpressive, there was a telltale gleam in her eyes. She was just as excited. That night in the library, she had confessed that ever since Lisette died, her throwing knives hadn't seen the light of day. The only time she'd trained was in her backyard, throwing an old set of kitchen knives at the trees. She'd admitted to him that she was beginning to miss the adrenaline filled moments of battle, but it still made her sad to think about fighting when her sister was not at her side.

"I haven't been away from the Institute in days," he said. "I'm beginning to get stir crazy."

Marie shook her head at him, offering up a slice of orange. He took it and turned it over in his fingers, the juice leaking all over his hands. She handed one across the table to Dmitri, who wordlessly declined.

"Stir crazy? You?" asked Marie, leaning slightly towards him. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. "I would think, with all those books you surround yourself with, that you've been to all kinds of places. In fact, you probably embarked on some sort of journey in the time before breakfast."

Tristan couldn't suppress his toothy grin. She knew. She knew of the magic of words on paper. The word magic did not mean the same thing to him as it did to other Shadowhunters; to him it wasn't just the work of warlocks and demons and whatnot. To him it meant more than that—it was the existence of miracles everywhere. Little things, like the cadence of a line in a book, or one of the melodies he'd hear coming from the music room when Dmitri thought no one was nearby, or the way Marie's eyes could go from looking like dreary rainclouds to being the brightness of the sky lit by lightning. Marie might not have been a bookish person herself, but she understood why he lost himself among bookshelves and pages.

Dmitri cleared his throat and Tristan turned to him, still beaming. His _parabatai_ raised his right eyebrow, the one with a scar running through it, and Tristan couldn't quite figure out why. What puzzled Dmitri about his expression, what was so odd about his widening smile?

Dmitri glanced at Marie, who'd already stopped paying attention to the two of them as she gnawed on her piece of fruit. The smell of citrus in the air intensified. Dmitri narrowed his eyes at the both of them and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then pressed his lips together as he thought better of it. Tristan was unperturbed by his friend's odd behavior as he pulled away from the table and leaned over the counter to catch the attention of Mrs. Hightower.

"Tristan," she said, reaching up to grab hold of his face. "It's like this mug of yours was built for smiling. So, you're going to careful today, aren't you?"

He would've nodded, but her grip on his chin was too strong. "Yes," he said.

"Good boy," replied Helena. In her mind, she mothered both of the boys, and Tristan didn't mind that. He didn't know much of his real parents anyway, so instead he looked to the Hightowers. They had raised him, trained him, shown him the ropes—he was more than just a ward of the Institute, he was a second son. Mrs. Hightower pulled him down and planted a kiss on his cheek before releasing him, and she looked on as he slid out of the room.

To some, Tristan and Dmitri were just two really unfortunate cases; the orphaned and the scarred. But to anyone who really knew them, they were brothers, _parabatai_, the best of friends and a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

Marie stepped outside the Institute for the first time since her arrival. The summer breeze ruffled her hair and she reached to pull it back into a tight ponytail. The only reason she hadn't cut it was because it looked more like Lisette's this way, save for the difference in color. These days it seemed she had to hold on to Lisette tighter than she ever had, because there was less and less to keep her memory around. But lately, Marie was getting better at seeing good memories instead of bad ones. The night in the library with Tristan had been the first in a long time that she wasn't plagued by nightmares.

She planted herself on the Institute steps to wait for the boys. She wasn't all that surprised that she'd beat them out, considering how excited she was to be going on a hunt. As soon as she'd finished breakfast, she'd rocketed out of the kitchen and up to her bedroom, pulling out the fitted gear that was tucked away in her chest of drawers. And after she'd put it on, she reached back into the dresser to withdraw something wrapped in orange and red—_flame for the birth of a Nephilim_, the baby blanket that she and Lisette had both been wrapped in. Hidden in its folds were Marie's throwing knives, but now, as she sat on the steps, they were tucked in the lined pockets that had been sewn in along the legs of her pants. She had a seraph blade on one hip and her stele on the other, which she'd already used to trace some runes on her arms.

After a few minutes, she heard the large double doors of the Institute creak open, and footsteps behind her. Dmitri sat himself down a step beside her, adjusting his sword in its sheath. Marie looked back at the door, which he'd left ajar for Tristan, but Tristan still wasn't there. She turned to Dmitri.

"Does he always take long?" she asked. Dmitri snorted in laughter and nodded. "You'd think he'd be out here first, though, since he left breakfast before either of us."

"Distractions," said Dmitri hoarsely. "Books."

"Yeah," Marie agreed before it registered that he'd spoken. Seconds later, she turned to him and went wide-eyed. He only smiled as if to say, _You didn't expect that, did you? _She shook her head in disbelief and struggled with what to say. She didn't want to be rude by asking why he said some things and why he kept the other things locked inside. But she didn't want his effort to go unacknowledged by her. He was opening up. "I thought you only spoke to Tristan…" she finally said, rather sheepishly.

He shook his head.

She forced a smile. "I'm guessing this a once in a while thing, yeah?"

Dmitri nodded and smiled, and Marie relaxed. She probably hadn't offended him.

It was a few more minutes before Tristan emerged, and unsurprisingly, he had a book in his hand. Marie thought maybe that he was reading up on Moloch demons before they went out to kill the lot, but she stole a glance at the open book and saw that it wasn't so. _Around the World in Eighty Days_ was arguably a worthwhile read, but not when you were supposed to be going out to kill demons in a matter of minutes. She stood up, plucked it from his hands, and tossed it in the bushes that lined the front of the building.

"Hey," he said indignantly. Marie rolled her eyes.

"Were you going to read aloud and bore them all to death?" she asked. "No. I doubt you planned on hitting them with it either. Come on, Tristan."

"I was going to leave it on the doorstep," he replied, tapping his foot. "Right here. But the bushes are as good a place as any, I guess. And before you ask, no I haven't forgotten any weapons. Seraphs and a few angelic throwing stars," he said. "All packed and ready."

"Angelic throwing stars?"

"Yes. Now let's get going."

The three of them made their way to the park, entirely glamoured so as not to attract attention. Tristan and Dmitri kept pushing each other into random passersby, but Marie just sighed at their antics and kept walking.

When they were there, they easily located the gaggle of demons and made quick work of them. No one in their trio really injured themselves badly, just a scrape or minor burn here and there, nothing that couldn't be remedied by iratze. Marie's throwing knives had runes etched along the blades that mortally wounded the demons on impact, and Tristan's stars were similarly effective. Dmitri slashed and twirled, graceful and glorious in combat, and Marie grinned in her admiration of him. Of course, Tristan's brutal stabbing with glowing blades was interesting to see as well.

Marie hadn't been at the Institute very long, but she'd seen these boys almost every day since her arrival. She'd heard their story and watched them interact, at mealtimes and in the training room. They were complex individuals bound together by unconditional brotherly love, but they complimented each other more than they depended on one another. Unlike Lisette and herself. For the longest time, Marie had felt like she was just an extension of her sister, but less artistically talented and wise and whatnot. But she was beginning to realize that it wasn't like that, not really. Losing Lisette was tragic, but in the midst of her grief, she changed. She was one person instead of half of a duo. She was more of _Marie_ than she had ever been.

On the way back to the Institute, Tristan wedged himself between Marie and Dmitri, slinging one arm around each of them. He was the tallest of the three, but he only had a few inches on Marie and Dmitri, who were about the same height. Tristan grinned as they walked, babbling and laughing the whole way. Marie smiled at him, feeling a similar post-battle giddiness. Dmitri was beaming as well, if not for the thrill of the fight, then for the way his parabatai kept talking like he'd never run out of breath.

Moving to Chicago was a better decision than Marie originally thought. She knew she'd learn to love it here; she was already learning to love it here. The Institute was the right balance between creepy and beautiful, the garden was nice and the library stunning, but the best part of the place so far was undoubtedly the family. They were welcoming and kind, and the boys were starting to become the closest friends she'd ever had besides Lisette.

She was starting to feel like she belonged.


End file.
